They both peered up through the rows of gravestones and hedges. No one was visible, and as far as Abrams could determine, no one had returned the fire. Abrams rose to one knee, holding his revolver with both hands.
Katherine stared straight ahead, her automatic held to her front in a prone firing position. “I think they’re gone.”
“Could be.” He rose up into a crouch and looked at the unconscious body of Peter Thorpe lying faceup on the edge of the drive. Abrams debated with himself for a second or two, then glanced at Katherine, who was scanning the rows of tombstones. He placed the muzzle of his revolver between Thorpe’s eyes and cocked the hammer.
“Don’t.”
Abrams turned his head, expecting to see one of Thorpe’s men. Instead he looked up into a pair of cold eyes the same color as the blue-gray barrel of the Uzi submachine gun pointed at him.
Two more men appeared from behind a mausoleum, also carrying automatic weapons. All the weapons had big ugly silencers fitted to them. The men were young and hard-looking, and seemed self-assured.
“Stand up.”
Abrams and Katherine stood. Abrams noticed that they wore ankle-height black basketball sneakers, and their clothing appeared to be normal casual wear, though the colors were on the dark, muted side. Abrams recognized the attire as subtly paramilitary; urban guerrillas of some sort who were dressed to mingle in the crowds or engage in a firefight.
“I’ll take that.”
Abrams caught the hint of an accent. He handed the man his revolver, butt first.
The man motioned with the barrel of his Uzi. Abrams and Katherine walked back toward the grave.
Abrams came through the rows of tombstones, and saw three more men, similarly dressed and also holding silenced automatic weapons, standing around the open pit. One of them cocked his finger at Abrams.
Abrams moved closer and looked down into the grave. Thorpe’s six men lay at the bottom, sprawled atop each other, their bodies ripped and riddled with what could only have been bursts of automatic fire.
Katherine took a step closer. She looked into the pit, put her hand to her mouth, and turned away.
One of the men spoke. “I thought it a good idea for you to see this, so you understand we are not playing at games here.”
Abrams recognized the accent as English. Simultaneously, Katherine looked at the man speaking. “Marc!” She turned to Abrams. “This is . . . an acquaintance of mine—Marc Pembroke.”
Marc Pembroke did not acknowledge her but made a motion to his men, who began filling in the grave.
Abrams regarded the man’s icy demeanor, then looked back into the pit. He thought, With acquaintances like that, who needs strangers trying to kill you?
Pembroke said, “You’ve nearly botched things up, you know. It’s fortunate that Pat O’Brien asked me to keep an eye out. He said you might pursue private initiatives.”
Abrams said, “We were out for a run.”
Pembroke ignored him and looked at Katherine. “You ought to have known better.”
“Don’t lecture me. I don’t even know what your role is in any of this. But I will ask Mr. O’Brien.”
Pembroke began to reply, but then looked back at Abrams. “You have an important duty to perform this afternoon, Mr. Abrams. You had no right risking your life in this idiotic business.”
Abrams replied, “Well, now I’m free to risk my life in the idiotic business of this afternoon.”
Katherine looked at him quizzically.
Pembroke watched the grave fill with dirt, then without looking up said, “Why don’t you just be off, then? We’ll tidy things up here.”
Katherine hesitated, then said, “Peter . . . ?”
Pembroke gave her an annoyed look. “Peter Thorpe is not to be molested in any way. He’s been given a little something to keep him asleep. . . .” He looked at Abrams, then continued. “When he recovers consciousness he will find himself lying safely in a mausoleum. This grave will be covered with sod, and we will be gone. With any luck at all, Mr. Thorpe will be confused and frightened enough not to mention the incident to his controllers. It is important that Peter Thorpe maintain his Soviet contacts until we are ready to pull him in. Good day to you both.” He turned his back on them.
Abrams took Katherine’s arm. One of Pembroke’s men handed them their guns and they walked down to the tree-lined drive. Thorpe was gone. Abrams could easily believe that when he awoke in a dark vault, he would be confused. Abrams was confused himself, and he’d been awake for the whole thing.
They left the cemetery through the main gate on 25th Street. Katherine said, “What happened to your police backup?”
Abrams looked up from his thoughts. “What? Oh . . . I suppose your British buddy took care of them.”
“I was beginning to think you were bluffing.”
“So was I.” He looked at her. “You understand that Pembroke would have let us die had things gone a little differently.”
She nodded.
“You’re all a bit strange. Do you know that? Or have you stopped noticing?”
“I know.” She looked at him. “What important duty do you have this afternoon?”
“You’re the last person I’d tell.”
She smiled. “Well, welcome to the group, Mr. Abrams.”
He grumbled something, then said, “You’re a bad influence on me.”
They walked slowly, absorbed in their own thoughts. Abrams took her arm, tentatively, and she drew closer to him. They covered the block to Fourth Avenue and stood at the stairs to the BMT subway station. Abrams said, “This is the line we took down to Owl’s Head Park. We’ve come full circle.”
“Yes, we have. This will get me back to Manhattan, won’t it?”
“Yes, I’ll ride with you as far as Borough Hall. You get off at—look, my place or yours?”
“Neither,” she replied.
He looked at her.
“The house on Thirty-sixth Street,” she said quickly. Her words came out in a rush. “It’s safe. . . .”
He felt his chest pounding. “Okay—”
“We’ll have to sleep in separate rooms, though. . . . You can come to me at night . . . or I’ll come to you. . . .”
“We should decide so we don’t wind up alone in the wrong rooms.”
She laughed and threw her arms around him, burying her head in his chest. He felt her sobbing. She got her voice under control and said, “This has been one of the most awful days . . . one of the best days. . . . Be careful this afternoon. Whatever it is, be careful.”
Abrams saw that people were going around them to get to the subway stairs. “Maybe we should take a taxi—go to our places, pack—”
“Yes. Good idea.” She straightened up and composed herself.
They stood at the curb and waited for a passing cab. Abrams said, “Thorpe?”
She replied, “I feel nothing.”
“Anger? Betrayal?”
“No, nothing . . . foolish, perhaps. Everyone else seemed to know about him.”
“Are you still going to Van Dorn’s this afternoon?”
“Of course. It’s business.”
He nodded. “Is it possible Thorpe will actually show up?”
She considered awhile, then said, “Knowing him, it’s possible. It’s business for him, too.”
BOOK V
THE RUSSIAN MISSION
41
Tony Abrams joined the holiday crowds at Penn Station and boarded the three-twenty train for Garden City, Long Island. It was a short ride, but he had ample time to turn over in his mind the events of the morning: Carmine Street, the Brooklyn run, Thorpe, the cemetery. He thought about the Englishman, Marc Pembroke, whom Katherine had identified as another shadowy character with an office in Rockefeller Center and a door that was always locked.
He and Katherine had taken a taxi to his place and picked up a few things including the suit he was now wearing and his identification. They’d gone back to Carmine Street and gat
hered some of her things. Then they’d ridden up to the town house on 36th Street. During the ride, there was that awkwardness a man and a woman feel when they know they are going someplace to make love for the first time.
The town house was under discreet surveillance, and as Abrams and Katherine approached the door, they were intercepted by a plainclothesman who asked them to identify themselves and their purpose.
“Abrams,” he replied. “I have no purpose.”
The plainclothesman smiled and said, “Spinelli’s telling everybody you’re dead.”
“I feel fine.”
He led Katherine into the red-brick house. They expected to find Claudia there, but the house was empty. Abrams did not construe Claudia’s absence as unusual. Sometime after Van Dorn’s party she would return to the town house, and Abrams meant to have a word with her. He knew she was the weakest link in this iron chain and he intended to break her before the sun rose again.
Katherine had gone to the room that had been her nursery, the room Claudia had given him the night of the OSS dinner. Abrams dropped his bag in an available bedroom across from hers, then helped her unpack. As she finished putting her things away, she said, “It’s always strange returning to a childhood place.”
“Bittersweet, I think, is the word.”
She walked across the room and, as she approached, Abrams wondered how and why he had ever thought of her as the Ice Queen.
They made love in the four-poster bed, and Abrams was glad he hadn’t slept with Claudia in that bed. Their lovemaking had all of the best qualities that mark a first time—passion, discovery, and a feeling of fulfillment. For Abrams, the reality had been even more satisfactory than the long-held fantasy. As Katherine had put it, “I’ve scratched a six-month itch.”
To which he’d replied, “Six months?”
“Maybe seven. How about you?”
He’d hesitated, then said with a straightforwardness that matched her own, “From my first day at O’Brien, Kimberly.”
He’d left her lying on the four-poster bed. She had wished him luck on whatever it was he was about to undertake. In the event one or the other did not return to the town house before dawn, they’d made a date to meet for coffee, before work, at the Brasserie.
Abrams’ mind returned to the present as the train arrived at the suburban village. He walked from the almost empty station to the nearby law offices of Edwards and Styler, located in a Georgian-style mansion.
The building was open, but deserted. Abrams referred to the lobby register and climbed a sweeping staircase to the second floor. He drew his .38 from his pocket and held it against his side. He walked quietly across the upper foyer and found a heavy oak-paneled door marked EDWARDS AND STYLER. He stood close to the door and listened for a while. He could hear nothing on the other side of the door. He knocked hard, three times, then moved to the side.
The door opened a crack, then swung fully open. A man about his own age smiled and put out his hand. “Mr. Abrams? Mike Tanner.”
Abrams transferred the pistol to his left hand and shook hands with Tanner, who was staring down at the gun. Tanner recovered his composure and escorted Abrams into a rear room, which was decorated in oak and red leather.
An older man rose to greet him. “I’m Huntington Styler.”
Abrams took Styler’s hand, wondering about parents who would name a baby Huntington, wondering more about the man who used the name.
Styler said, “Please have a seat.”
Abrams sat and regarded Styler for a few seconds, thinking, OSS. There was something about these people that was readily identifiable. It was as though they’d all gone to the same schools, belonged to the same clubs, and used the same haberdasher.
Huntington Styler, in turn, regarded Abrams for some time, then went to a liquor cabinet. “Scotch and soda, correct?”
“Yes.”
Mike Tanner said, “You’ve read the brief on this case?”
“Yes. I think the Soviet Mission has a good case against George Van Dorn.”
“So do we,” said Styler. He handed Abrams a drink. “It’s not popular to represent the Soviets in a lawsuit against a well-known patriot. We’ve lost some clients over this.”
Abrams replied, “Someone has to see that justice is done.”
“True.” Styler seemed deep in thought, then said, “I appreciate your misgivings about joining us, based on the fact that you’ve done a little work for the firm with which Mr. Van Dorn is associated. But part-time process serving does not constitute an unethical situation. It is, in fact, so minor, we didn’t mention it to our Russian clients.”
Abrams thought the purpose of expunging his work with O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose from his employment history had less to do with conflict of interest than it had to do with the fact that the Russians undoubtedly knew what O’Brien and Company was really all about.
Mike Tanner said, “I heard on Friday from Mr. Androv. He seemed a bit upset at your police background, but I assured him you’d been nothing more than a traffic cop. Your police files are sealed, I assume.”
“That’s what they tell me.” Abrams wondered if the KGB had ever gotten on to him when he was on the Red Squad. The more he thought about his cover, which held closely to the truth, the more he realized there could be problems. He had filled out a long visitors’ questionnaire for the Russians, giving vital statistics and other personal information. There were two questions he hadn’t expected: Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist party? Do you have any relatives or friends who are or have been members?
The questions sounded as though they had been drawn up by the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1948, though the Russians were asking for different reasons. Abrams said to Tanner, “Did Androv mention my parents’ Communist party membership?”
“Yes. He wondered if we were trying to butter him up. Then he went into a harangue about people who had been shown the light, who were born into the faith, so to speak, and did not continue in the faith.”
Abrams nodded.
Tanner added, “He asked if you spoke any Russian. I referred him to the visitors’ questionnaire in which you said no.” Tanner bit his lip, then added, “I suppose that was a shot in the dark on his part.”
“I never listed Russian as a language skill on any form, except in the police force.”
Styler nodded. He said, “Let me give you a piece of advice from an old play called The Double Dealer. ‘No mask like open truth to cover lies/As to go naked is the best disguise.’”
Abrams sipped on his drink and thought: He was going in there under his own name and he existed in all the places where the Russians might check; he was born, went to school, had a driver’s license, and so on. The major alteration of public and private records had been confined to obliterating his employment with O’Brien and predating his employment with Styler to fill in the gap between his resignation from the police force and the present. In all other respects his cover was solid, because it was the truth. Yet it was the truth, as he was discovering, that might be his undoing. Especially the one great truth, which he had only recently discovered, that his buddy Peter Thorpe was an agent of the KGB.
Abrams lit a cigarette and reflected on that new development. The question was: Had Thorpe filed a report to the Russians in which Abrams was mentioned by name? Abrams thought it was a sucker’s bet to gamble that he had not. He knew he should abort the mission. He knew he should have killed Thorpe, if for no other reason than to try to protect himself. But it was too late for that now, and may well have been too late even as early as Saturday morning. Abrams looked at Tanner. “Have you spoken to Androv since Friday?”
“No.” He looked at his watch. “But I’m to call him and confirm.” He picked up the telephone, and after some time found himself speaking to Viktor Androv. Tanner confirmed the time of the meeting, then said, “Yes, sir. Mr. Styler and Mr. Abrams will be there.” He listened, then replied, “Yes, they’re both here now. .
. . Yes, I will.”
Tanner hung up and looked at Abrams. “He wants you to know that he looks forward to meeting the son of famous freedom fighters.”
“I’m flattered,” Abrams said. He turned to Styler and said abruptly, “I didn’t see you at the OSS dinner Friday night.”
Styler smiled slowly, “I never go. I’m out of that business.”
Except today, thought Abrams. Styler was holding a one-day-only Memorial Day sale. Abrams said, “But you are acquainted with Mr. O’Brien.”
Styler remained silent for some time, then a strained look passed over his face. He said softly, “I don’t know how much your personal feelings for Pat O’Brien play into this. . . . I assume you’re acting out of larger motivations . . . and if I were a cunning man, I wouldn’t tell you this right now. . . .”
Abrams set his drink on an end table and leaned forward.
Styler read the expression on his face and nodded. “Pat O’Brien flew out of Toms River, New Jersey, last night to make a parachute jump. The aircraft crashed in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Only the pilot’s body was found on board. The authorities assume that Mr. O’Brien jumped at some earlier time. There are search parties out. But the Pine Barrens cover a large area. . . .”
Abrams nodded.
Styler moved to the door. “I’ll meet you out front later. A brown Lincoln.” He left.
Tanner stood. “Please follow me.”
Abrams took his drink and followed Tanner through a communicating door that led into an office space that held six cubicles. Tanner said, “There’s your cubicle. A Mr. Evans will be with you shortly. He knows you as Smith. I’ll see you later.” He turned and left.
Abrams went inside the open cubicle that had his name on the glass partition and found a plain gray steel desk with his nameplate on it. He sat in the swivel chair and went through the desk drawers, finding them crammed with the Edwards and Styler version of the same junk he had in his desk at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose.
On the floor was a briefcase with his initials. He opened it. Inside was the thick file marked The Russian Mission to the U.N. vs. George Van Dorn.
The Talbot Odyssey Page 31